Original Fiction: Broken [8/14]
Title: Original Fiction: Broken [8/14]
Author: meiloslyther
Rating: R
Warning: Underage drinking and mention of self-harm.
POV: 1st, Chance
Summary: Chance, 18 years old and the main character, has multiple mental disorders, all of which are either undiagnosed or untreated, and lives with his best friend, Nate. Nate, 17, is mostly sane and logical, but tends to be oblivious to the hell going on around him. Megan, Nate's troubled 16 year old girlfriend, has problems with her mother because of her issues with men and dated Chance a few years prior. This is their story.
Word Count: 670 [this part]; 8,753 [total]
Author Notes: Based on semi-realistic events that happened to either myself or my friends.
Ch. 1 : Ch. 2 : Ch. 3 : Ch. 4 : Ch. 5 : Ch. 6 : Ch. 7
Ch. 9 : Ch. 10 : Ch. 11 : Ch. 12 : Ch. 13 : Ch. 14
"Come on, just a piece of bread. You need to get something in your stomach."
She finally retrieved the slice of bread I offered her and nibbled at it.
It was like trying to get a sick animal to go to the vet. She didn't want to eat anything, she refused most of my advice until she was too overwhelmed to refuse... I had never seen her this drunk before. Rather, I had never really seen her drunk. Nikki and two of her brothers had seen her drunk once, but only those three. She was kind of a defiant drunk. However, she was beginning to sober.
"Gimme another piece of bread," she muttered, finally succumbing to her hunger. I handed her one and sat down next to her.
She was laying face down on my bed in the living room, her head supported by her forearms, munching quietly on the bread. Despite her being drunk, she was kinda innocent looking. Kinda cute. Almost like her old self.
We went out once, for maybe about a month. We were really close, although nothing serious ever happened. I don't think we ever even kissed. But with her I always felt... refreshed, I guess is the word I'm looking for. It was so sweet and tender. She really was.
For the life of me, I couldn't remember why I broke up with her. Why I hated her so much, or so I told myself. I was suddenly in a mental battle with myself, fighting for reason, hell maybe even my sanity.
"It's really hot in here."
"Take your shirt off," I replied, not really paying attention.
"...Could you turn on the fan instead?"
I looked up at the ceiling. The fan was already spinning, full blast. Although, all it was doing was moving around the already hot, stale air that smelled of vomit, alcohol and weed.
"Fan's already on. Just take off your shirt, you've done much worse here."
She gave me a half assed grimace.
"Especially in front of me."
She sighed slightly and pulled her shirt over her head. She didn't take it off completely, however, and left the sleeves on, which I suddenly noticed were long sleeves. Underneath what she was already wearing was a wifebeater. No wonder she was hot.
She continued to nibble on the slice of bread. After a few minutes however, she began to complain again.
"It's so hot in here."
Getting a little annoyed, I suddenly grabbed her shirt and pulled; she gasped at my sudden gesture and watched hopelessly as I removed the shirt from her sweaty hands.
Cuts. Scabs. Hundreds of them. Maybe more. All over her arms. They looked like they had been deep too. Maybe even deeper than the ones healing on my chest and stomach. Must have been a lot of blood. Blood. It had never crossed my mind how much pain she might be in, considering all the problems she and Nate said her mom was having with men. It struck a chord. A deep chord I didn't even know existed within me.
"Megan... what's wrong?" was all I could think to say. I know why I did it; I was mentally unstable. But her... she was in no way psychotic or mental. A normal person would have to be practically... DYING inside to need this much pain to feel, if that makes any sense.
My broken arm twinged with what could only be described as imagined pain.
"I... Sometimes I just... feel that, you know..."
"...If you were dead, everything would be a lot better?"
She looked up at me with those sparkling hazel eyes, the look on her face strangely familiar, like an old friend from long years past.
"Yeah. That."
I suddenly realized where I had seen that look before.
"You have no idea how much I understand that."
I had seen that look everyday, every single fucking day of my life. That was the exact same look I saw every day in the goddamn mirror.
-----------------------------------------
A/N: More of my work here.
Author: meiloslyther
Rating: R
Warning: Underage drinking and mention of self-harm.
POV: 1st, Chance
Summary: Chance, 18 years old and the main character, has multiple mental disorders, all of which are either undiagnosed or untreated, and lives with his best friend, Nate. Nate, 17, is mostly sane and logical, but tends to be oblivious to the hell going on around him. Megan, Nate's troubled 16 year old girlfriend, has problems with her mother because of her issues with men and dated Chance a few years prior. This is their story.
Word Count: 670 [this part]; 8,753 [total]
Author Notes: Based on semi-realistic events that happened to either myself or my friends.
Ch. 1 : Ch. 2 : Ch. 3 : Ch. 4 : Ch. 5 : Ch. 6 : Ch. 7
Ch. 9 : Ch. 10 : Ch. 11 : Ch. 12 : Ch. 13 : Ch. 14
"Come on, just a piece of bread. You need to get something in your stomach."
She finally retrieved the slice of bread I offered her and nibbled at it.
It was like trying to get a sick animal to go to the vet. She didn't want to eat anything, she refused most of my advice until she was too overwhelmed to refuse... I had never seen her this drunk before. Rather, I had never really seen her drunk. Nikki and two of her brothers had seen her drunk once, but only those three. She was kind of a defiant drunk. However, she was beginning to sober.
"Gimme another piece of bread," she muttered, finally succumbing to her hunger. I handed her one and sat down next to her.
She was laying face down on my bed in the living room, her head supported by her forearms, munching quietly on the bread. Despite her being drunk, she was kinda innocent looking. Kinda cute. Almost like her old self.
We went out once, for maybe about a month. We were really close, although nothing serious ever happened. I don't think we ever even kissed. But with her I always felt... refreshed, I guess is the word I'm looking for. It was so sweet and tender. She really was.
For the life of me, I couldn't remember why I broke up with her. Why I hated her so much, or so I told myself. I was suddenly in a mental battle with myself, fighting for reason, hell maybe even my sanity.
"It's really hot in here."
"Take your shirt off," I replied, not really paying attention.
"...Could you turn on the fan instead?"
I looked up at the ceiling. The fan was already spinning, full blast. Although, all it was doing was moving around the already hot, stale air that smelled of vomit, alcohol and weed.
"Fan's already on. Just take off your shirt, you've done much worse here."
She gave me a half assed grimace.
"Especially in front of me."
She sighed slightly and pulled her shirt over her head. She didn't take it off completely, however, and left the sleeves on, which I suddenly noticed were long sleeves. Underneath what she was already wearing was a wifebeater. No wonder she was hot.
She continued to nibble on the slice of bread. After a few minutes however, she began to complain again.
"It's so hot in here."
Getting a little annoyed, I suddenly grabbed her shirt and pulled; she gasped at my sudden gesture and watched hopelessly as I removed the shirt from her sweaty hands.
Cuts. Scabs. Hundreds of them. Maybe more. All over her arms. They looked like they had been deep too. Maybe even deeper than the ones healing on my chest and stomach. Must have been a lot of blood. Blood. It had never crossed my mind how much pain she might be in, considering all the problems she and Nate said her mom was having with men. It struck a chord. A deep chord I didn't even know existed within me.
"Megan... what's wrong?" was all I could think to say. I know why I did it; I was mentally unstable. But her... she was in no way psychotic or mental. A normal person would have to be practically... DYING inside to need this much pain to feel, if that makes any sense.
My broken arm twinged with what could only be described as imagined pain.
"I... Sometimes I just... feel that, you know..."
"...If you were dead, everything would be a lot better?"
She looked up at me with those sparkling hazel eyes, the look on her face strangely familiar, like an old friend from long years past.
"Yeah. That."
I suddenly realized where I had seen that look before.
"You have no idea how much I understand that."
I had seen that look everyday, every single fucking day of my life. That was the exact same look I saw every day in the goddamn mirror.
-----------------------------------------
A/N: More of my work here.